California brown hills turn verdant. Hope always comes from home. From the earth. Also, I guess from the kitchen. Or a simple pen put to generic paper. A branch to the sky.
Here again by the ruddy pines the same one passes with her umbrella. She undoes her silks and waves. If she would do anything, I would do anything. She could, for instance, let her umbrella roll once over by the bench and let it drip on the marble stones, and laugh. After all, it is January.
Here again by the ruddy pines the same one passes with her umbrella. She undoes her silks and waves. If she would do anything, I would do anything. She could, for instance, let her umbrella roll once over by the bench and let it drip on the marble stones, and laugh. After all, it is January.
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